BROKEN
by Valentine Michel Smith
Summary: WIP AU/Future Fic. Lana/Clark. Usual disclaimers apply. Apologies for the odd breaking, but the fic's segment (rather than chapter) driven.
1. Reentry

**Disclaimer**: Don't own nada. Don't sue. Just workin' a little writin' thang.  
**Category**:  Angst/Romance; Amnesia Challenge; Future L/C  
**Feedback**: Please   
  
**BROKEN**

Valentine Michel Smith

* * *

_It's better to have loved and been loved in return…_

* * *

  
The living room is dark. The scent of rain drifts through open windows, carrying memories of past summers and ancient joy. She hears the pit-pit-patter, rhythm constant, water on the needs-paint surface of the porch beyond her.   
  
She knows the wood is curving because it's warped.  
  
She doesn't care.  
  
The screen door bangs.   
  
She doesn't look to see if wind is driving rain from outside in.   
  
It is.   
  
She doesn't care.  
  
She's curled, feet under thighs and hips, back against the sofa's armrest. She should be comfortable.  
  
She isn't.  
  
She's leaning too much, the angle's too awkward to sustain without distress. She doesn't notice though until her muscles tense and spasm.  
  
_The light…_  
  
It's a fleeting thought, much like the notion of reaching for the end table lamp or crossing the room to flick on the overhead.  
  
She doesn't move.  
  
She often falls asleep there on the couch.   
  
The bed was meant for two, not one.  
  
She draws her arms around herself. The attempt at consolation proves a waste of time.

Her eyelids flutter, heavy. Her head falls chin to chest as sleep overwhelms.  
  
THUUUUuMMMMP.  
  
She bolts up. "What the hell was that?"   
  
Her breath catches as she listens. Nothing.  
  
She rises, heading for the porch.  
  
She opens the door, flicking the switch for the porch light.   
  
There's a click but the bulb offers nothing.  
  
"Shit," she says, pulling the door open.  
  
Sodium lamps throw shadow and light in random vegetation/building configurations.  
  
She looks out along the horizon, watches as shrubs wave breeze greetings.   
  
She looks down – and she sees.  
  
Male. Twenties. Tan. Muscles drawn taut.  
  
He's wadded up in a ball, stark naked.   
  
He's wet; water glistens randomly.  
  
He's shivering.  
  
Dark hair long, falling into a face obscured.  
  
She stumbles back into the room, gasps.  
  
She starts to cry, then –   
  
SCREAMS  
  
She runs through the living room, the dining room and kitchen, exiting the apartment via the back door.  
  
She brushes back overgrowth the landlord promised to cut back two months ago.  
  
She runs out into the street.  
  
Her voice comes in a whisper. "Help. Somebody, help me... Please..."  
  
A car slows, then speeds by her. Her voice is now loud, desperate. Help! SOMEBODY...!!!!" Another car swerves around her. Across the street, a door opens.  
  
A neighbor. An older man. She leads him to the porch, her movements faltering.  
  
Trepidation is misplaced. The porch is empty. She regards the absence, her mind racing. "He was... right here."  
  
The Old Man nods, feigning belief. He steps back, receding into the background.  
  
Alone...  
  
She decides to walk.  
  
She walks around the corner and into the neighborhood bar.  
  
Vodka is the poison of choice. She learned early on – no day after aromas to contend with. She's still pretty. Men buy her drinks. She tells them her name is "Connie." It's much more common than "Lana."  
  
She has a few – mostly single. The last drink is a double.  
  
The men tell her eyes are intoxicating.  
  
She prefers the vodka.  
  
She doesn't feel better when she leaves.  
  
She just feels... less.  
  
She meanders back to the apartment. "Hmrphf. Maybe I'm just seeing things." She laughs a little, the laughter strained and unreal.  
  
She walks into the apartment, and stumbles. She falls, landing hard on something on the living room floor.  
  
She pushes herself up. Not something... _Someone_...  
  
He's in the living room.  
  
Sprawled on the Ikea rug. The one he helped her pick.


	2. Reentry cont'd

She levers herself up hastily.  The gesture is a fumbling one as hands and feet tangle in limp appendages.

She forces herself into a corner.  Sits and watches.

He doesn't move.

She doesn't move.

She remains immobile as tears fall, trailing mascara.  The liquid warmth reminds her.  **She...can't...do...this...**

She shifts, blinks the tears away.  

She gnaws absentmindedly on nail.  Something she hasn't done since she was five.

He doesn't move.

She draws her knees into her chest.  Rocks.

She stops, considering.  

_No more crying_.  Now what?

Without realizing it, she's begun humming to herself.  It used to be "their" song.  Or the song she'd sing to him.  He liked it when she sang.  Abruptly, the humming stops.

She inhales deeply, preparing.  The effort will be gargantuan.  

She crawls over to him.  

His skin is hot, but not hot in the way she'd anticipated.  He seems utterly…changed.  He is, she determines, running a fever.  She rises, balancing uneasily on stress and alcohol weakened legs.

She just needs to make it to the bathroom.

_Lana, you can do this.  You are NOT weak.  You can't afford to…_

She's shaking, but she's in the bathroom before she realizes it.  Staring into the medicine cabinet.  It's virtually empty – you don't take care when you don't care.  Percodan, Valium, rubbing alcohol, Tylenol, Band-Aids.

She grabs the Tylenol, fills a basin with lukewarm water.  She resists the temptation to add lavender from the small bottle she kicks accidentally beneath the sink.

She tosses the lavender into the trash.

She returns to the living room and proceeds to bathe him, with a lover's delicate touch.  Long lashes flutter, revealing drowsy grape green eyes.  


	3. Reentry cont'd

There is no recognition.

In spite of everything.

Who he was is gone. But who has he become?

She rises, heads back into the bathroom. She grabs a bath towel. A CLATTER from the living room snatches her attention back. She launches herself back into the living room.

He's moved. Slightly. Hit the basin. Water's spilled on the hard wood floor. The basin's overturned.

It's undamaged.

Lana uprights the basin. She uses the wash rag to sop up the spilled water, uses the bath towel to dry him.

She touches him. First accidentally.

Then on purpose...

_His skin_...

...leans in to inhale him.

She hovers there, a few inches above the small of his back, tracing the length of his spine with her eyes, moving, inhaling, remembering, then remembering not to (remember).

She backhands the recollections away.


	4. Reentry cont'd

Lana rises, removing the basin, and returns it to the bathroom. She fills a cup with water.

On the way back into the living room, she stops at the linen closet, grabs a sheet.

She stops sharply in the living room. The sheet drifts down, covering him. She leans over, slides two Tylenol between chapped, full lips, turning his head slightly to accept the water. He swallows, sputters, on the verge of awakening. He doesn't.

Lana thinks to join him – the impulse is as natural as a heartbeat - but opts (wisely) for the sofa. There's work in the morning.

* * *

The couch is empty, a rumpled afghan the lone indicator of previous occupation. The water is running in the bathroom, first in the sink, then in the shower.

He's still on the floor, C-curled.

Lana steps from the shower, wrapping a towel around herself. She tosses wet hair back, wraps it in another towel. She examines her face in the mirror. Still youthful, if only vaguely in spite of her youth, the pain, the pain...visible, etched in her features.

Concealer will hide the dark circles, soften the lines.

She brushes her teeth, applies lipstick and mascara.

Lana gathers her hair, twisting it into a tasteful knot. She exits the bathroom, grabbing a plain blue dress, pumps and tiny pearl earrings. She heads off to work. She'll stop at the army surplus store on the way home. He'll need clothes.

* * *

She answers the phone, deftly handling multiple calls and scheduling duties. Fairy princess gone secretary days are always like this, plump with minute-to-minute urgent NOTHING. But... A check's a check. A job's a job.

Lana released the silly teenage notion of a "career" a few years ago. Right after...

4:59 p.m. and she's on the elevator. Happy Hour until six. That'll give her one-half hour to get to the surplus store before it closes.


	5. Reentry cont'd

The nachos are stale but free, the margaritas suitably potent - doubles going for the price of singles.  She shouldn't be drinking tequila.  It makes her... _unpredictable.  __Impulsive.  Stupid.  "Stupid" is the word that comes to mind when she plunks the __what is it now, anyway? thirty-five cents into the coin slot.  Clunk-ching, clink-ching..._

She hears a familiar – though obviously forgotten – "The number you have reached is not in service."  _Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!  Her own number.  __Pay the phone bill, Lana?  Did you remember to pay the phone bill?_

She slams the receiver onto the cradle, her fury rising.  How could she...  Anger slides away as her mind wanders elsewhere.  _Was he awake?  Would he have answered if he was?_

Lana awaits the return of the silver.  "Shit," she says, realizing the pay phone had claimed the quarter and dime as its own.

_Gamblers always lose._

She gambled when she stayed with him after she knew.  The Truth.  The awful, horrible, unbelievable, undeniable, beautiful truth.

His story made her pancake parents talk look like a walk on the "woe is me for nuthin'" side.   And still makes her feel like a friggin' fool.

He thought she'd blame him.  Blame him?  _Blame him?  That was Cl-.  That was the way he was.  Ridiculously obsessed about all the wrong things.  _

_There's always a price to pay for obsession._

Lana's head begins to ache.  She pops a Percodan.  Overkill, but oh, the thrill.  She dials the other number.  Everyone should have an 800 number she decides.   His voice rises, throaty and (expectedly) non-emotive.

"He's here."

"Has he said anything?"

"No."

"He hasn't - " She crumples.  "Jesus, Lex, I can't...  I..."  The words run together, become  sob-sputtered language.

There's a long pause on the other end line.  "Listen to me.  You will do what you have to.  You will tell him your name is Mother Teresa if he thinks it is.  I don't believe he wound up on your door accidentally.  But you cannot tell him anything.  About who he was.  Do you hear me?"

"Yes." The word is hard for Lex to hear, but harder for Lana to utter.

"**Nothing," Lex reiterates.   Without warning, his voice goes velvet.  "Lana, we could lose him forever." **

* * *

The tequila sets her world spinning, faster than it'd spun in the last four years, faster than it had spun in the last twenty-four hours.

The last margarita...  The last one is always the one you don't need.  

Fucking tequila.

She makes it to the surplus store.  She has to.  He can't very well go around naked – and she'd thrown away his clothes.

Every shirt.

Every pair of jeans.

Every shoe, boot, sock and sneaker.

* * *

She decides on jeans and khakis.  Whoever he was, he'd be able to make due.  She buys a size larger than he needs.  He's lost weight, and she imagines/hopes he'll regain it once he begins eating properly.

He looks frail.

He isn't.

She knows this.  She also knows it's what he believes himself to be at this moment.  That would be all that mattered.  A pretty package wrapped in a tangled bow.

She pays for the clothing, fumbling over bills in her wallet.  Her hands are usually steadier, even when she drinks.

It's him.

* * *

It's the itch that wakes him.  The rug is wool, and though soft from wear, it frankly tickles him.  He rolls over slowly, twisting himself accidentally into the sheet.  He blinks, staring at the ceiling.

There are stars.  Glow-in-the-dark stars.  Two constellations.  He knows that much.  If he can't recall their names.

He stands, untangling himself from the pima cotton, rising uneasily.  The living room looks, well, lived in.  He walks to the end table, picks up a pack of matches.  The name – Dresden Room – means nothing to him.

He pads into the bathroom, his footfalls echoing on the hardwood beyond the area rug that served as bed.

He turns the knobs for the shower.  The hot water knob sticks.  

He hesitates, then climbs into the tub.

The water's cool, and shocks his system to "highly conscious."  He takes the soap in hand and glides it over his body.   The aroma of green tea and tuberose fills his nostrils, and he inhales.  

It relaxes him.

Not that he's tense.

Or has reason to be.

He climbs from the tub, taking a bath towel from the rack.  He dries himself slowly.  His brow furrows, the tightness dissolves as he allows himself to concentrate fully on the simple act of removing the last of the moisture from his body.

He pauses, replaces the towel neatly on the rack, and pumps lotion from a dispenser.  He warms the lotion between both palms, then proceeds to rub the oily mix over his arms, legs, abdomen...

* * *

She's going to reek in the morning.  She knows better.  She knows tequila will seep through her pores even after showering and tell the world the fucking fairy princess got fucked up last night.  

Goddamnit, she knows better.  What is she – fucking sixteen?

She laughs.  _Lotta years between then and now.  She chuckles as she heads up the walkway._

* * *

He's standing in front of the full-length mirror, looking at himself.   He's tall, vaguely muscular.  Ok, maybe just a little beyond "vaguely."  But not like some..._freak..._

His hands glide over his body.  There's a resolute firmness.

He turns, examining his back and –

* * *

– She opens the door and does something she hasn't done in a long, long time – she turns on the light.

He isn't on the rug.  

The sheet is neatly folded, placed on the sofa armrest.

"Cl - ," she starts to say.  Goddammit, Lana.  Clark's dead.  

She blinks, her head turning as she walks.

She catches his reflection.  

Yes, the body's more slender, but it still takes her breath away.  He's perfectly proportioned.  Not to mention those eyes... And he still has an ass you could rest a tray on.

He catches her staring at him.  He runs inelegantly into the bathroom, closing the door.

She shakes her head.  So not Clark.

Lana sighs and heads into the kitchen.  She debates, staring first into the freezer (vodka), then into the cabinet (vodka), and eventually into the refrigerator (ginger ale).  She settles on the soda, removes the bottle and pours it into a glass.  

She swallows the pop, dissatisfied with its lingering blandness.

She hears the bathroom door creak open.  "You didn't have any clothes."

She walks toward the bathroom and tosses the bag inside.

He says nothing.  

She listens as he goes through the fresh purchase and makes a selection.  He steps out of the bathroom, shoeless but dressed.  Wet hair droops into his face as he speaks quietly.  "I should go.  I don't...  I don't belong here."

He's carrying the bag as he walks toward the front door.  He stares for a moment, absorbing her features, focusing on her deeply almond eyes.  "Do I?"


	6. Reintroduction

Seconds tick away before she answers. Seconds that stretch minute-like as she regards him. "You were on the porch," she says finally. Lana removes a tab from a Listerine Pocket Pak and places it deliberately in the center of her outstretched tongue. She inhales.

The man considers. "I don't... I don't think I have any place else to go." There's a moment before he extends his hand. "My name's Paul."

Lana blinks. She places a second tab on her tongue. Sucks on it. She extends her hand as well. "Miranda. You're more than welcome to stay here if you'd like."

His face brightens, though he doesn't smile. "Are you sure?"

"No. Not really," Miranda-Lana says curtly. "You can take the bed. You're too tall for the couch."

The man peers into the bedroom. The bed is neatly made, full of throw pillows and care. It looks like something from a magazine. Inviting – and utterly unused.

"I've got work in the morning." Lana turns and heads into the bathroom. The man nods slowly.

He ambles into the bedroom, removing his jeans and tee as he crosses the floor. He folds them neatly and places them on the bottom of the bed. He places the throw pillows in a nearby chair and turns the sheets and comforter back. He sprawls on the king-size mattress and is asleep instantly.

* * *

Lana stands, blinking away tears as lukewarm water spills from the showerhead. Her body heaves soundlessly as she sucks air and tries to breathe.

* * *

Breakfast is a cup of Folger's Instant (black). She checks and sees he's still in bed, occupying as much space as his will body allow. She sips coffee as she studies the gentle rhythm of his breathing. It's barely discernible. 

He looks tranquil.

One of them should. He probably deserves it more anyway.

She writes a number hurriedly on a slip of paper and places it by the phone. "In case of an emergency." She leaves change and writes almost illegibly. "Phone doesn't work." She dashes out, mug in hand.

* * *

He isn't sure how to pass the time. He finds a wrench, fixes the shower's hot water knob. 

He watches Oprah.

He finds the laundry room (in the back of the building, down the stairs) and does laundry.

He sleeps some more.

When she returns, he opens the door eagerly. "How was work?"

"Work." she says simply as she enters the bedroom, removing her shoes and dress without breaking her stride. When she reemerges, she's wearing low-slung jeans and a crocheted top. The bell sleeves flutter as she adjusts her hair.

Lana looks at his feet. "We need to get you some shoes."

"Right."

Lana checks her purse. She retrieves keys, unearths a credit card. "I'll bring the car up the drive."

He nods and she disappears. Outside, he hears the hum-roar of an engine. He steps out of the apartment. 

She unlatches the passenger door. He climbs into the old Toyota, folding himself into the front seat. She almost smiles. "You can adjust the seat. There's a handle..." She reaches between his knees. The seat slides back unexpectedly. He shifts, startled, regaining faulty balance.

He looks cute, she thinks. He always looked cute. Ok, hot. Damn hot. Geekier in high school to be sure, but always... "Put on your seat belt. Don't wanna get a ticket."

"No," he says, "That'd be bad."

"And bad's not good," she says, backing the car out of the driveway.

"Bad's not good," he repeats.

"Right's right, wrong's wrong," she says, her voice edged with unintentional sarcasm.

"Right," he says simply.

"Right."

She peels out of the driveway, cutting off another driver as the Toyota's tires squeal. "That, she explains, "Was wrong."

* * *

Melrose Avenue. 

Lana parks the car and heads into a shoe store. Paul starts to follow. She turns sharply on her heels. "Uh, no shoes," she says, indicating.

Paul resituates himself. "Right."

She continues inside. 

Lana selects a pair of Doc Martens (shoes, not boots) – chosen for their durability and quasi basic ness. And socks. He needs socks. Clark would never have worn these shoes. But they'll look good on the stranger in the car.

The man who says his name is "Paul."

Lana pays for the shoes with a credit card. "Are these returnable?" she asks as she pushes the box toward the clerk. "I'm not sure about the size." This is a lie. She asks because she's not sure he'll like them, much less wear them. She knows who he was, not who he's become.

The clerk scans the shoes and socks. "Usual drill," he explains. "Long as they're not worn."

The clerk bags the items. She collects the drawstring pouch and leaves the store.''

* * *

She stands at the car. "Try these," she says, pulling the shoes and a pair of socks from the bag.

He stares at the shoes.

She thinks he hates them.

Paul turns them over in his hands. "Kewl," he says, sliding the socks on, then the shoes. He swings his legs out onto the pavement, climbs from the car, steps jauntily, walking away from the car. He bounces back toward her.

She expects a smile.

He merely asks, "What's next?"

"I'm thirsty," she replies. What she thinks is: "I need a drink."

She climbs into the car quickly, followed by Paul.

* * *

The decor of the Dresden Room speaks the patois of Old Hollywood. It's what she likes about it. The clientele is strictly young, the cheap drinks and bar food keeps it that way.

Lana selects a booth. Paul follows, not with the puppishness of Clark, but with a man's uncertainty.

The waitress stops at the table. "Vodka martini – dry – three olives." She turns to him. Paul says nothing. "Could you bring us two?"

"Martinis?" asks the waitress.

"Martinis," repeats Lana.

"Both with three olives?"

"Sure. Why not?" Lana says. The waitress disappears.

The martinis arrive. She sips, nibbles on an olive. He tosses the martini back. "Whoa," she cautions, though not sure if caution is really necessary, "You might wanna slow down there, Paul. Have you eaten?"

"Nothing in the fridge."

"True enough." Lana catches the eye of the waitress. "Can we get an order of calamari. The waitress nods, scribbling as she disappears. "And some Tabasco?"

* * *

The alcohol burns. He doesn't remember that particular sensation. He doesn't remember drinking. He doesn't remember much at all really, just enough to get him from here to there. His mind feels empty, hollowed out; the alcohol warms and fills him. He stops the waitress, ordering another and finishing it while the woman who bought the shoes is in the bathroom.

* * *

She orders another round when she returns.

The calamari and Tabasco arrive as Marty and Elaine begin their set. Paul and Miranda share the calamari. A giggle escapes Miranda as the Elaine launches into a lounge version of "Staying Alive." 

Miranda takes Paul's hand, leading him out onto the sidewalk.

* * *

She unlocks the passenger door. He climbs in, leaning over the seat to unlock the driver's side. She slides behind the wheel, starting the car. The Toyota pulls into the flow of traffic, disappearing from view.

She stops the car in front of the apartment. "No space. I'll have to park up the street." He starts to open the door, then stops. He turns to her.

She feels and meets his gaze. The air grows thick, weighted by the unspoken. 

Lex's voice rises, striking a Jiminy Cricket pose inside her head. 

She says nothing.

He says nothing.

She refuses to acknowledge it, the longing she feels, sitting so near a stranger with a familiar face. 

Paul leans in. Miranda follows suit.

The kiss is slow and deliberate. 

He smells nice.

But not like Clark.

He kisses well.

But not like Clark.

The kiss continues. Unknowing. Exploratory. Unrecognizable but pleasant.

Pleasant yields to a slow build of heat and hunger as his hands caress her face. She leans closer, taking his head in her hands, running her fingers through his hair.

The kisses grow greedy, fevered, plentiful. She bites his lip gently as she pulls away. 

Miranda puts the car in gear. She drives up the street, finds a space, parks.

The duo exits the vehicle.

Paul's head hangs low. "I'm sorry," he says.

"Sorry? For what?"

"The..." He tosses his head. The gesture is foreign, but she understands.

"You've got to be kidding." She steps closer, twists his shirt in her hand. "Never, ever apologize for taking what's offered _willingly_." She pulls him down, close enough to feel that the softness of his lips against hers as she speaks. "Never." She kisses him again, making his space her own.

* * *

She doesn't know if she's doing the right thing. The concept annoys her presently. What she's doing feels right. It feels good. Not that she hasn't been with other men since... But there's something about the unfamiliar familiar that makes her want him. Damn the consequences. Selfish, thoughtless behavior. Some would say it's her specialty.

* * *

He pours vodka from the freezer and watches the clear liquid pool in her navel. He leans in, lapping first, then sucking the soft contours of her abdomen, tracing circles with his tongue. He breathes slowly, the warmth of his exhalations a stark contrast to the chilliness of the liquid. He leans further, alternately suctioning and licking the small hollow that is her belly button. He lingers here, planting kisses from navel to breast.

* * *

The shower runs, water misting on and around them. Paul stands behind her, watching as the water falls and clings to her skin. He takes the plastic bottle in hand, flipping the top, unleashing the subtle, relaxing aroma of plumeria and ginger. He squeezes body wash onto a large sea sponge, and proceeds to draw the sponge down Miranda's back. His touch is delicate and meaningful.

Miranda turns, pressing herself against him as she takes the sponge in one hand and his ass in the other. The sponge traces arm and forearm as her lips find him. 

She guides him gently, the spray of water redirected by his height. Thick hair hangs into his eyes, tickles her face as he folds himself toward her.

* * *

Morning. She's up and dressed and out the door before he even notices.

* * *


	7. Reintroduction cont'd

They were in the bed. Sleep rendered inconsequential by urges too delicious to ignore, torso rode torso. Light, strobelike in duration and intensity, flooded the room. He found himself alone in the bed, naked and vulnerable.

The strobe light returned, winking a rhythm that fueled his movements, illuminating there-and-gone images with freakish flashbulb clarity. He plucked himself from the mattress, walked into the bathroom, and stood before the medicine cabinet mirror. For an instant – and only that – he thought he saw himself stained a grotesque deep crimson.

He found he was now standing in the bedroom, then beyond it, surveying the darkness of room after room. The diversion seemed blatantly irrational. He thought he liked her. No, he did like her. He liked her. And he was incredibly aroused by her even if he could not recall her name.

He was back in the bedroom. The scent of the woman clung to him as her body moved against his own. He could feel the urge to come strongly despite the fact that he had not penetrated her. He sometimes had trouble letting himself go during the times, regardless of the urge, so great the pressure, the pain, the desire to… He could never fill in the blank. The desire to… seemed destined to forever remain a semantic amputee.

In the living room, Paul stared at the walls. He could hear the sounds coming from the bedroom, echoes of carnal pleasure, desire, satisfaction, _hunger_. He turned, his perception shifting like he was on a merry-go-round. He saw himself with her on the bed, a writhing mass of quadruple legged flesh, sheets and pillows long ago discarded. 

He saw the living room walls.

White walls flecked with red.

Had the flecks been there before?

He hadn't remembered them.

Paul studied the polka dots as the sounds from the bedroom were cranking toward Dolby Digital. He wanted to be there.

So why was he here?

He wanted to be there, in bed, with her.

From the living room, Paul could see that he'd brought her to orgasm. She clung contentedly to him, her arms wrapped about his torso, her legs spaghetti tangled in his. 

Paul saw himself in the bed as he stood in the living room where the walls were no longer flecked with red. No, the walls were now splattered with red.

_Paint_...? was his first thought.

_Not paint..._ was his second.

_That's...not...paint..._

The blood exploded from the walls.

* * *

He bolts upright. 

The dream... What was _that_ about? 

The images linger, absent meaning, bereft of significance. 

* * *

Paul lays in the bed, coverings conspicuously absent from his naked body, arms rigidly at his sides. He's grown hot during the early morning hours, and even now, in the cool of the new day, he feels on desire to reclaim the jettisoned linen.

Paul stares at the ceiling, his thoughts jumbling like they seem to do more and more these days. His head has begun to feel like an overstuffed blender, crammed full of ingredients for a proper something, but the impressions seem too peculiar to be memories and too disjointed to represent anything real.

Paul removes himself from the mattress' embrace. He walks into the bathroom where he hesitates, surveying his face in the mirror. What might normally pass for a boyish visage currently has the stubble markings of a beard in form, and this gives him momentary pause. He stares at himself, trapped by the gaze of the doppelganger bounced back by glass and silver, his self at once present and absent. _Who is he?_ Really? 

He doesn't realize he's picked up the razor until he feels its weight in his hand.

The stubble remains.

* * *


	8. 8

**Note: **  _RL calls.  Alas, this fic will not be updated._

_Thanks for the support and feedback!  :)_


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